The Relegation of Life and Happiness
by fractured-fairytale06
Summary: When a trap at a crime scene leaves Lisbon in a chemically-induced coma, Jane is left to chase after her cure before she runs out of time. Meanwhile, Lisbon witnesses a few interesting things of her own... JISBON
1. I

_[Author's Note]_

_This is my first foray into the world of Mentalist fan fiction, although I've been reading these stories for quite some time. Hence--my own attempt. I can only hope that I manage not to make the characters too unbelievable. This was really new subject matter for me, so I'm eager to see what you all think of it. I'm very tentatively putting this out here, mainly to see if people are interested in seeing it continue. Please review and let me know. Enjoy. -FF06_

_I._

Everything hurts.

Every single muscle, bone, and fingernail hurts like I've been hit by a train. For all I know, I have. I can't exactly remember the steps I took to get here, and that makes me more nervous than almost anything else. All I see is darkness when I finally open my eyes, wincing with the effort. At first I think _blind _but that's not right. I don't think I can't see, I just think there's nothing to look at. Warehouse, maybe? A basement? No, that's not right. There's a disturbing lack of smell here, wherever "here" is. Warehouses and basements smell musty, like lumber or motor oil or whatever else they've been housing. This place smells like nothing.

The pain begins to fade slowly, as I move my arms and legs. I'm lying on solid ground, concrete. It's cool to the touch. It takes a bit of effort that has me cursing under my breath, but finally I manage to pull myself upright and take a few deep gulps of air. What I wouldn't give for a painkiller right now. I run my fingers through my hair and blink a few times, waiting for the world to come into focus. It doesn't.

"Hello?" I call out unsurely, seriously freaked out when my voice doesn't echo like I was expecting it to. That can't be normal, right? Everything echoes.

"My name is Teresa Lisbon, I'm a state agent," I say, "Is someone there?"

"I'm here, Teresa."

I whirl around in the direction I heard the voice coming from, but I still can't see anything. It's black. The voice was a woman, though. No one I recognize.

"Hello?" I ask again. "Who's there?"

"Lights," the voice commands and suddenly I'm sitting on Jane's couch at CBI headquarters, enveloped in the warm leather upholstery. A woman is sitting next to me, looking perfectly calm. She's wearing a blue dress belted high on her waist, and her dark blonde hair falls in waves around her face. She's pretty, but I don't know her. She's not in any of my memories of suspects, killers, or family members.

"Who are you?" I ask frankly.

"Rebecca," she answers just as frankly.

"That doesn't tell me who you are."

"I'm a guide, I guess you could say," she muses. "While you're here, someone has to show you the ropes so you don't get lost. I'm here as long as you need me to be."

My stomach drops.

"Oh, crap," I whisper. "I'm dead, aren't I?"

She laughs. "No, you're not dead. I promise."

"What's going on?" I ask. "Is this a dream?"

"Something like that," she says contemplatively. "I'm a bit of a by-product of your current mental status."

"Mental status?" I ask, "I'm hallucinating?"

"You're such a pessimist. It's always the worst possible scenario with you," she mutters. "I have to give you a little credit, though. You're not panicking like a lot of people do."

I give her a short laugh, "I think it's because this is all some crazy dream I'm going to wake up from soon. Any minute now, I bet."

"I wouldn't count on that exactly, Teresa."

My heart knocks hard against my ribs. "Why not?"

"You're in a chemically-induced coma in Los Angeles." She pauses for thought. "Well, not right now. Your body is. Your _mind_ is here, where you're the most comfortable. Which is work, apparently. An unusual choice, if you ask me."

"Coma?" I ask, cutting through the useless parts of her speech, "Why am I in a coma?"

She studies me for a bit and her eyes soften.

"What do you remember about your last case?"

"Uh… a laboratory assistant at UCLA was murdered. Her boss is still at large," I say, scanning my memories and finding the orders to drive out with the team at nine o'clock this morning. "We'd been thinking that the boss was abducted, but Jane insisted that he was in on it." I pause, trying to think up more. "That's all I remember. I was arguing with him about checking out the boss's condo because we didn't have a warrant and he wanted to sneak in."

"That's it?" she asks, crossing one leg over the other. "Try and think of something else about the condo. What do you remember?"

I glare over at her. "You sound like Jane."

"No need to be insulting," she says and I laugh. "Keep concentrating."

"I think Jane won the argument," I say, vaguely recalling his self-satisfied smile as we walked up to the door. I see the door open a crack as he reaches for the knob. "It turns out we didn't need the warrant, anyway. The door was open and we just walked in."

I try a little harder to pull a detail out of the murky black of my memory, but nothing happens. It's like Jane's failed attempt at hypnosis after I was framed for the McTeer murder.

"Yeah, I'm done," I say, leaning back. "No more."

"Just as well," she sighs. "You don't really want to remember the rest."

I scowl. "What do you mean?"

"The doctor you were after-"

"Donovan."

"Yeah, him," she continues, "He rigged an air freshener with a motion sensor to release when someone passed it. It was a trap, filled with the mixture that he had to kill his assistant over. A neurotoxin."

"Oh, my God," I say absently. "What happened? Is Jane okay?"

"Jane's fine," she says, "But you're not."

I swallow, hard. This is harder to hear than I thought it would be.

"What happened to me?"

"Do you know the illness fibromyalgia?" she asks and I nod. "Well, it mimics those effects but in higher concentrations. The toxin he invented tricks your brain into interpreting pain from ever nerve ending in your body—excruciating pain. Eventually your body can't handle it, and it goes into shock and dies."

"Hey!" I cry, "I thought you said I wasn't dead!"

"You're not," she says, frowning. "If you let me finish, I was going to tell you that you're running out of time and your life is in the hands of one of your team members. They have to make that choice for you."

"Oh, please say it's Cho." Rebecca shakes her head. "Van Pelt? Rigsby?"

She shakes her head again.

"Sorry, Teresa," she says, "Patrick will be running this show."

"Show?" I scoff. "That's a dumb way of putting it. So I just sit here and wait for Jane to make up his mind?"

"Essentially, yes."

"Well, I hate this already," I sigh. "What choice is Jane going to have to make, anyway? I didn't leave a living will or anything. He wouldn't have to pull the plug, if that's what's going on."

"No, that's not it," she answers. "He's at the hospital now with the rest of the team, talking to your doctors. They've put you in a coma to keep you out of pain, but they're not holding out much hope. Since the neurotoxin is new, they don't have a way to counteract it. Grace is crying because they're saying that all they can do now is keep you comfortable."

"Wow," I say, marveling at the knot in my throat. "That's, uh… intense."

"Patrick believes that the doctor had to have an antidote somewhere," she explains further, "He says he's too cautious not to. He thinks he can go find it, and Grace is insisting that they should stay there, with you. He's torn between spending precious time with you and going after a wild goose that may or may not save your life."

"Jane likes wild geese," I say with a small grin, "I think he'll take his chances. I like my odds. If, of course, there is an antidote to be found."

"Oh, he's right," Rebecca says, nodding her head. "The good doctor was far too nervous to risk exposure without having a cure. He finished it last week and was planning on selling the formula to the highest bidder, but you hadn't figured that out yet when you went to get him."

"Okay, good. There's an antidote," I say, slowly getting my footing back. Metaphorically speaking. "I can do this. Jane always gets what he's after, so it's just a matter of time before he finds what he's looking floor and brings it back to the hospital."

"See?" Rebecca asks, "Nothing to it."

"So, what?" I ask, "You're just here to keep me company?"

"Kind of, yes," she says. "We didn't want you wandering around. It's easy to get lost in your head and never come back out."

"I guess I can see that," I say, thinking quickly about my father. "So you're like a divine stewardess or something? You're dressed like one."

"Funny," she replies with a hint of a smile. "I like this dress. It's professional."

"Whatever you say," I reply and exhale loudly, folding my arms over my chest. "I guess I should be grateful that this isn't a Red John case. I'd be in a lot of trouble if it was."

"Why is that?" she questions. "He's picked you before."

"Yeah, but how many times is that really going to happen?" I ask bluntly. "One day he's going to get tired of making that trade. Besides, the last time was only a sheriff who probably wouldn't have given us anything anyway. He would have killed himself in prison to spite us or Red John would have done the honors himself. When it's actually Red John on the line, Jane's decision will already have been made."

She turns and gives me a look that surprises me. She looks mad.

"What?" I ask. "What did I say?"

"You don't have enough faith in him," she says. "For your information, he does pick you when Red John is on the line. Two years from now."

I scoff at the idea. She's making this up.

"What are you talking about?"

She sighs, tapping her foot impatiently before standing up and offering me her hand. I take it and follow her as we wind through the hallways of CBI. They look wrong without all the people in them, even though I've stayed late more than my fair share of nights. That was different, though. Jane was still in the building a lot of those times. Suddenly, the idea that he's the one looking out for me isn't nearly so unpleasant. I remember his speech about being there for me, and suddenly I'm calm. At ease. Somehow, I've grown to trust him a little.

While I'm lost in thought, Rebecca rushes onward. She stops in front of the interrogation room and looks at me expectantly.

"Well?"

"Well what?" I ask. "I'm supposed to go in?"

"There are some things you have to see for yourself, Teresa," she says, and she doesn't seem impatient anymore. If anything, she seems infinitely patient. My hand instantly goes up to the cross around my neck. I used to laugh at the idea of angels, but I'm getting more and more used to the idea as time goes on, even if Jane doesn't believe in them.

"It's okay," she coaxes, "Go ahead."

Wordlessly, my hand reaches for the door.


	2. II

_II._

"I'm sorry."

The words are pathetic. Less than useless, and the man in front of me uses them so carelessly. They're hardly a cure-all, and he's asking us to accept them as such. It's as though Lisbon's life—all she's accomplished, and all she's loved—can be replaced and made better with a hardly civil platitude. Ridiculous, of course. Nothing and no one can do that, least of all him. He's older, probably divorced but close to his children. His already-married daughter, judging by the way he gravitates towards Grace. This is all equally useless information, of course. My observations aren't going to do Lisbon any good, and so I file them away for when they might.

"That can't be it, right?" Rigsby asks from beside me as Lisbon's doctor walks away. "Just make her comfortable? What a load of crap."

"Yeah." Cho's answer is simple, but he's despondent. They all are.

"Rigsby, he's just a doctor. What else do you want him to do?" Grace has tears in her eyes. They look more gold this way than they usually do.

"I want him to get Lisbon out of that damn bed," he seethes, running his hands over his face. Rigsby is the least equipped out of our little group to deal with this kind of thing—Cho and Van Pelt, they know how to keep things bottled up. Rigsby has a lot of emotion and no idea what to do with it.

Van Pelt's voice is quiet. "We all do. But he's right—there's no treatment, and we can't invent one in the next few hours. We need to be here for Lisbon now, when she needs us."

"What are you saying?"

"She's saying that we should all go in there and tell Lisbon goodbye," I answer for her. My frank observation shocks them all, I can tell. Maybe they'd forgotten I was in the room.

"No," Rigsby says adamantly, "No way."

"Do you want to stand out here all day instead?" Grace asks fiercely. "Donovan is gone, and there is nothing else we can do to help her. I would think you'd understand how important it is to be with her now."

"Damn it," Cho says, lying back against the wall behind him. "Damn him."

"I'm going in there to talk to her," she says, resolved. She has far too much heart to be a cop. "Who knows? They say coma patients can still hear and recognize voices when they're under."

"You don't want that," I tell her.

"Why not?"

"Because if her brain is alert enough to hear and recognize your voice, it's aware enough to feel what that… that poison has done to her," I say sincerely, hardly recognizing the pressure in my chest. "That means she can feel every single nerve ending out of billions as they misfire and die, taking her with them." I clear my throat. "You don't… you don't want that."

I remember Lisbon's voice as she shrieked at the top of her lungs, effectively communicating just how much pain she was in. The last thing I want now is for her to feel it again, in increasing amounts as the time wears on. Obviously, Grace doesn't appreciate this answer. A tear spills on her cheek and her lips draw into a thin line. Maybe she'd understand if she'd been the one with Lisbon a few hours ago instead of me, when the insufferable woman insisted on pushing me back so she could go in first.

"Goddamn you, Jane."

She takes off down the hall, probably to a bathroom where she can cry in private. Rigsby sends me an irritated glance before trailing off behind her, calling her name. They'll be back in a little while, after she's calmed down. She deserves her time alone after dealing with me.

"Smooth," Cho observes.

"Yeah."

I walk into Lisbon's room before I can convince myself not to, shutting the door and locking it to keep everyone out. Then, thinking twice, I leave it unlocked. Lisbon doesn't belong to me alone—she's a part of all their lives, no matter how much I like thinking that she's mine. Probably a mistake, I know, but I've made plenty by now. I can make a few more. It strikes me how tired she looks, even though she's asleep. I'm glad CBI sprang for a private room—she'd hate waking up to a stranger. The knot in my chest knocks painfully against my ribs and reminds that Lisbon won't be waking up. Ever. She won't even be able to wake up and say goodbye; she'd be in too much pain. I know the coma is a mercy, but right now it feels more like a cage keeping her from us.

The chair next to her bed is worn and lopsided, but I sit in it anyway. Staying by the door and waving goodbye is too cold, as is ignoring her completely, and I won't do it. Similarly, sitting on her bed seems a little too intimate and I know she wouldn't be pleased to see me do it. She would see it as an invasion of her private space, which it would be. I find myself smiling as I lean backward and cross my left leg over my knee. It's all too easy to imagine her brow furrowing and her smoky eyes darkening with annoyance. Her face would flush, her mouth would scrunch up, and she'd very seriously consider harming me. While I generally consider her temper tantrums an act of melodrama, there's very little I wouldn't give to experience them again.

"You're forcing me to be sentimental, woman," I mutter half-heartedly, sighing. "You know how much I hate this kind of thing."

She doesn't reply. Had I expected her to?

"In any case. I, uh… I'm not sure what to say here," I confess. "I won't say goodbye to you. I won't, I'm sorry."

I can hear her voice in my head saying, _Damn it, Jane. Get it together._

"Well, it's the truth, Lisbon. Goodbye is a bit… final for my tastes. I'm used to tricks, loopholes. Cracks that I can sneak through. You should know—you're the one that has to clean up after me. Goodbye goes against everything that I hold dear and here you are, forcing it out of me.

"I wish I could be surprised that you would but that's our relationship in a nutshell, isn't it? I push and you pull, vice versa. Most days I like that—it gives me a challenge. A bit of run, really." I take a deep breath. I know I told Van Pelt that Lisbon wouldn't hear any of this, but I'm starting to wish she could. "Not now, though. Now it's no fun at all."

Outside the rest of the team has gathered. Rigsby is standing too close to his lover to be subtle about it, but they're both upset and they need each other. I can't see Cho, but I'm sure he's telling them that I need a minute alone judging by the way their attention darts to the window and guiltily back again. I need to remember to thank them later for this small gift of privacy.

"They're a good team, Lisbon. You picked well," I tell her absently, scooting my chair closer to her bed. "I'm really not sure what's going to happen when you're uh… when you're gone. They'll promote Cho, no doubt. Rigsby's very proficient at what he does, but isn't much of a leader when it comes to the day-by-day minutiae of the job. People will be more intimidated by Cho's stoic demeanor, so he'll be the natural pick. He'll be good for it, I think. He'll be able to handle it without pulling his hair out. Not, mind you, that I'm planning on taking it easy on him out of sympathy. Oh, no. He'll get it just like you did. Maybe worse, just to see if I can get a reaction out of him."

Her voice again.

_Jane… _

"Yeah, I know, I know. I'm getting to it."

My breath rattles as it leaves my body. This really is proving to be worse than anything I could have imagined. Giving into a little sentimentality won't kill me, and so I lean forward and take her hand. I keep the touch light, and non-intrusive although she's not awake to shoo me off in the other direction. Her skin is surprisingly warm to the touch, but I keep my caresses at a minimum. I don't want to paw at her when she's not awake to hit me for it. I want to say everything I need to, to try and make her understand just how much she's meant to me in the last few years. Ideally I could sculpt the perfect sentence to illustrate everything I need to, but the words don't come. Her hand twitches in mine and the thoughts are gone.

"I-I can't do this. Lisbon, I'm sorry, but I can't."

The chair clatters loudly to the floor as I jump out of it, alerting my CBI friends that something is going on. They rush through the door before I can reach my escape, eyes on Lisbon's body.

"What's wrong?" Cho asks, eyes on the fallen chair.

"Nothing," I reply hastily. "Cho, Rigsby, I need you to come with me."

"What?" Van Pelt asks, "Why?"

"Donovan is a twisted little brainiac with an undying thirst for affirmation," I point out, "All he wants in life is for the world to realize how brilliant he is. That being said, he's also a ruthless planner and paranoid to a fault."

"Yeah. So?" Cho says, ever concise.

"There is no way he'd develop a neurotoxin for biological warfare unless he'd have a failsafe way to prevent or counter accidental exposure," I say and immediately Rigsby is nodding his head.

"You're saying he had an antidote to the neurotoxin he developed," Cho rephrases, "The one that hurt the boss." I nod in reply, leading us into the hallway and away from Lisbon.

"Well?" Rigsby asks, grabbing the keys from his pockets. "What are we waiting for?"

"That's the spirit," I say and the three of us head down the hall before Van Pelt's voice stops us in our tracks.

"Wait!" Her voice is anxious and she's exhausted from crying. Lisbon really is quite important to her young protégé.

"Go ahead," I urge her, knowing exactly what's holding her back, "Stay with her, keep her company if that's what makes you feel better. We'll do just fine on our own."

"You're sure?" she asks, but she secretly does want to stay behind in case we're wrong.

"Of course," I say and offer her a smile that I wish I could feel. "We'll just go and we'll have Lisbon back before you know it."

"Be safe," she sighs, crossing her arms over her chest. "I mean it."

"Always," I promise easily and then we're off.


	3. III

_[Author's Note]_

_Thank you all for the tentative interest in this story. Hopefully this chapter presents a little more insight into what's going on... I tend to alternate Lisbon chapters and Jane chapters. I think they both have a lot going on. Enjoy!_

_III._

Walking through the interrogation room door is like walking into a furnace. Sweltering heat hits me in the face and I stumble back, only to realize that I'm not backing up to the door I came through. Instead, a tree scrapes against the skin of my arm. I turn around to find that the quiet world of CBI has disappeared. Rebecca is left in its place, leaning against a tree a few feet behind me. I look at her, confused, and she nods her head in my direction. I turn, and my chest constricts when I focus on the scene in front of me.

It's in the very early morning, when the sun is just coming over the horizon. Harsh red light is falling over the trees, where three people stand staring at each other. Jane is there, and from his stance I can tell that he's on edge. An unfamiliar face is holding a long blade to a woman's throat and with an unpleasant shock I realize that it's my own face that's staring, terrified, at Jane. I can't make out their words—I'm too far away. I move closer, overhearing bits and pieces as I walk. The man I'm assuming is Red John is taunting Jane, reminiscing over the night his family was murdered. My face flushes with anger.

"Jane, just do it," the other me orders in spite of the knife pressed against her throat. I absently notice that I've let my hair grow out; it's longer than I've been keeping it in the last few years.

"Shut up," Jane orders and it shocks me a little. Jane doesn't usually talk to me like that. In my time, anyway. According to Rebecca, all this takes place two years from now. By then, he may talk to me however he wants.

I come closer, just a few feet away from the mess, and I realize that Jane has his own knife. A bigger one, in fact. The idea of Jane wielding a weapon seems so out of place and I pray to myself that he doesn't have to use it.

"Yes, Jane, please do," Red John says with a tranquil smile. He caresses the other me's neck with the blade, drawing a thin line of blood. "Since you've forced me into hiding for the last six months, I've been out of practice. How fitting that I take her as my consolation prize?"

"You're not doing anything to her," Jane seethes and my heart beats a little faster in my chest—the Jane I know doesn't sound so raw, or so angry. I guess he has that right when he's faced with the man who took everything from him. "Lisbon, just stay calm. He won't hurt you here. It doesn't have the melodrama he so craves."

"Doesn't it?" Red John asks. "Maybe it doesn't have a bedroom wall to smear her blood all over, but there is one perk I've yet to experience first-hand. I get to murder your little pawn, right in front of your eyes."

Jane flinches.

"Jane, don't you dare listen to him," the other me seethes, making Red John laugh.

"Damn it, Lisbon, be quiet!" he says fiercely. "He'll kill you."

Her eyes meet his and it shocks me to realize just how serious she is when I hear her say, "I don't care."

When had I gotten to that point? How?

"I won't risk you."

His voice is soft and it makes my breath catch. Before I can contemplate all the possible reasons for this sudden shift of perspective, the rustle of leaves a few feet away catches my attention. Rigsby is moving slowly toward us, gun drawn. He'll have a safe shot in minutes. I look back and see that the other people are so caught up in their staring contest that they haven't noticed his approach. I thank God for the fact and then move closer, hoping to get a good look at Red John. Hopefully when all this is over I'll be able to get a sketch done and see where it takes me.

I fade back into the situation when Red John draws the knife a little lower, over my counterpart's lower abdomen. It meets the skin between her shirt and pants, and draws blood there too. More of it, this time. The other me hisses in pain, but says nothing. For a second I think I feel it too, but that's not possible so I write it off. I watch as Jane's hands shake, but then he looks the tiniest bit to the right and sees Rigsby. He looks back to Red John without batting an eye, concealing his newest ally. A quick survey of the situation reveals that Jane has a big choice to make: let Rigsby take the shot, effectively saving me but forgoing his own revenge or rushing Red John and risk having me killed.

He barely waits five seconds before giving an almost imperceptible nod.

The gunshot is the only sound I hear for a few seconds, until I watch Red John's body fall to the forest floor. The deep chasm in the back of his head is proof enough that he won't be coming back this time. The other me falls with him but writhes out of the dead man's grasp within seconds of hitting the ground. Her breathing is rough and tears are building, but what surprises me isn't the display of emotion. Rather, Jane is focused on her rather than the body in front of them. His hands go over her wounds, checking to see if they're deep enough to cause additional harm. The other me assures him that she's fine. She throws her arms around his neck, assuring him that it was finally over.

I look back at Rebecca, and she's staring at the scene with a far-off look in her dark eyes. I clear my throat and she looks up at me, shaking her head slowly as though to clear her mind of any lingering thoughts. Neither of us says anything as I head back in her direction, listening to the voices behind me fade into nothing. By the time I reach her, the forest has transformed back into the CBI interrogation room I entered a few long minutes before. The fresh pine smell is gone, replaced by the smell of nothing. It unnerves me still.

"It ends," I find myself saying quietly, sitting in one of the chairs. "It really does end."

"Yes, it does," Rebecca assures me kindly.

"It's good to know," I ask, leaning my head against the back of the chair. "My head is starting to hurt again." I wince. "In fact, everything is starting to hurt again. What's going on?"

"Time is passing," she says simply. "Don't worry. Jane is working hard, I promise."

"If you say so," I reply. "Was all that real? What you just showed me?"

"Every bit of it," she replies, climbing to sit on top of the table a few feet away, "Down to the last detail. I wanted you to know that it's okay to trust him, because he did mean it that he would be there when you needed him. Even if it meant putting his own agenda aside, which he did without a second thought."

"How do you know all this?" I ask, trying to settle comfortably into the chair only to find that it's impossible. I hurt too much to get comfortable.

"In my profession, we have access to our subjects' lives. All of them," she explains. "It helps prove our point, whenever we have one to prove. Our jobs exist so that the people who live in their own heads will either awake with better understanding of their lives or be able to die without any unresolved questions."

"So you're already dead?" I ask, albeit a bit insensitively.

"Yes."

"Who were you when you were alive?" I ask, perpetually curious. "Do you remember?"

"Oh, I remember perfectly," she said and gives me a knowing smile. "I was Patrick's first wife."

My heart stops for a second and blood rushes in my ears.

"What?"

"Your co-worker, you call him Jane, was my husband when I was alive," she says gently, as though she's expecting me to run screaming from the room.

"Holy crap."

She laughs. "Is that really so shocking?"

"Maybe a little," I reply honestly. "I was familiar with your case… yours and your daughter's, uh, murder… but I never recognized you."

"I've had my eye on you for a while, Teresa," she admits, smiling. "You're a hard worker, and you're so strong. So determined. Catching my family's killer wouldn't have been possible without you, so I made sure to send Patrick in your direction."

"This is so weird," I confess, staring up at the ceiling.

"I'm sure it feels that way, but I promise it will make sense in the end," she assures me. "I just want the two of you to realize what you have in each other, that's all. You're the only two people in your lives to experience that kind of loss, and what it feels like to bear that kind of grief. I know you hate to admit this, Teresa, but you need him. You need someone who won't let you deflect your way out of things."

"What about him?" I cry. "He thinks he can smile and be charming and get away with whatever he wants to! He has no idea how to take responsibility for himself or his actions."

"Oh, he knows," she says, "He just doesn't feel like it, more often than not."

"Oh, great. That makes it way better."

"That's why he needs you, though," she tells me. "He needs that person in his life to remind him that his games have consequences—he never had that before, in his life with me. It's why he's so devoted to you now."

"Terrific," I sigh, ignoring the elated feeling in my chest, "Patrick Jane is devoted to me."

Before I can grumble any further, something Rebecca—Rebecca Jane, apparently—said just a few minutes ago.

"You said you were Jane's first wife," I remind her. "Who's his second?"

She smiles.

"You are, Teresa."


	4. IV

_[Author's Note]_

_Again, thank you all for the interest in this story! I don't really have much else to note, except that this chapter went unedited and all mistakes are mine. :D_

_IV. _

"Come on, go faster," Rigsby prods from the backseat of the SUV, despite the fact that Cho already has his lights flashing and is plowing through traffic at what I'm sure is nearing illegal speeds, even for law enforcement.

"Crashing into a guardrail at eighty miles per hour isn't going to help Lisbon any," Cho deadpans, weaving through the cars surrounding us effortlessly.

"Neither does showing up five minutes too late," Rigsby responds aptly. I'm torn between agreeing with both of them—we have a deadline, but dying in a high-speed crash isn't going to serve our purpose very efficiently either.

In the end, it hardly matters. We arrive in front of Donovan's condo and the stark yellow of the crime scene tape assaults my eyes, making my stomach slide around uncomfortably. Rigsby and Cho charge up the steps like they've been trained to do and I trail slightly behind out of habit, if nothing else. Two uniformed policeman have been posted at the door, either as punishment or because their superiors don't care much them. One is an older man with a broken nose and the other is younger, with ruddy hair and shifty eyes. They've been here hours already, I'd expect. Rigsby and Cho flash them their badges and they stand aside, grateful for the chance to relinquish their responsibilities.

"What do you think they're looking for?" one officer asks the other as Rigsby and Cho disappear through the door. The older man shrugs in reply. I can't help but interject.

"Do you really want to know?" I ask, sidling up to the younger one. He's nervous, anyway. My decidedly close proximity will only be heightening the effect.

"Y-yeah," he replies, "Are you CBI, too?"

"Eh, you could say that," I say ambiguously, "I'm technically considered a consultant. You know, bureaucratic red tape and all that nonsense."

"So what do you do?" he asks, blinking quickly. He has that intense expression of concern and curiosity, and it dawns on me that he's a conspiracy theorist. A closet one, if his sideways glances at his partner mean what I think they do. No need for suspicions to get out on the job unless you've already proven them, right? This will be pathetically easy.

"I'm what you call a 'specialist,' if you catch my meaning," I say, raising an eyebrow and framing the word with finger quotes. I don't have a meaning, of course, but we'll let him draw his own conclusions.

"Oh…" he says as though everything has dawned on him at once. "Gotcha."

"We're just checking out some things, you know," I say casually, shrugging my shoulders and leaving my hands in my pockets. "With everything this guy was working on, it's a wonder this whole neighborhood hasn't been wiped out already."

"I know, right?" he says and clears his throat. "W-what was he working on, again?"

I widen my eyes. "You mean they haven't told you?"

He shakes his head, obviously nervous. The poor boy is toast.

"Well, it's this neurotoxin that causes your lungs to disintegrate," I lie, faking a shiver up my spine for effect. "No thank you, you know what I mean? At this point, we're just hoping it's not airborne. If it is… goodbye Los Angeles, in a matter of hours."

"Jesus," the kid says, his hands shaking. Sweat is beginning to form on his upper lip. His partner is beginning to look a little nervous himself. "But you guys have it handled, right? Contained, or whatever you call it?"

"Oh, we certainly hope so," I tell him, rocking back on my heels. "This is just a precaution, you know, because we've got to start covering it all up soon. You know how it is, right? Forgive and forget. Or is it prosecute and forget? Eh, it doesn't matter. I forget."

"Yeah, yeah," he says, faking calm. "Hey, uh, you guys don't need us anymore do you? You know, because we could use something to eat…"

"Oh, no, be my guest," I say, gesturing back to the black and white squad car parked at the curb. I offer him a conspiratorial wink. "By the time you get back, all this will have been a figment of your imagination. Know what I mean?"

"Okay, great," he says, hastily grabbing his keys and nodding for his partner to follow him. The man follows without a word. "We'll, uh, we'll be right back then."

I let him get halfway back to his vehicle before calling him back. "Perry! Hey, come back here just a second."

He jumps and guiltily looks back, probably wondering whether or not he should pretend he didn't hear me and keep going. He's also furiously trying to remember if he ever offered me his name—his mind will be working too hard to realize that it's written plain as day on his uniform.

"Do me a favor, will you?" I say, leaning into him and lowering my voice. "Keep this between us. The less we think you know, the better off you are. Understand?"

He nods and backs away slowly before taking off in the fastest walk I've ever seen. I'll be surprised if he even thinks about coming back to this place today. In the next few hours he'll contemplate his resignation, and half an hour after that he'll refute the idea. In the end, he'll be fine once he realizes that Los Angeles wasn't really going to be wiped out. He may feel a little silly, but no harm no foul.

"Jane!"

My amusement is temporary—Cho's voice rings out from the house and I find myself hurdling up the stairs, fearing the worst. The feeling of apprehension in my chest only worsens as I get closer, Lisbon's collapse playing on repeat behind my eyes. Awful, awful images. I rush into the cool air of the inside of the condo, almost praying that I don't find what I'm expecting to.

"What is it?" I ask, winding through Donovan's home to find Cho and Rigsby standing in the man's study, frozen stiff. "What happened?"

"Another air freshener thing," Rigsby says, obviously close to hyperventilating. "I entered a room without looking for one and it went off."

"He walked into the room and it hissed," Cho reports anxiously. "What were Lisbon's symptoms?"

I watch Rigsby for a few seconds but he doesn't cough or collapse. He gives no indication of discomfort, except for the mild case of anxiety he has anyway. The air around us is still and sweet.

"You're fine," I assure him. "Lisbon, uh… you would have known by now."

"Really?"

"Really," I reply and inhale deeply. "Hm. Smells like gardenia."

"I told you," Cho says, shaking his head.

"Dude, how was I supposed to know?" Rigsby replies angrily. He shoots his colleague an angry glance before turning back to face me. "Jane, what are we looking for here? I don't see any glowing vials lying around the place."

"It wouldn't be anything so blatant," I note, exhaling loudly. "And it wouldn't be back here, so removed from the rest of his home."

"Why not?" Cho asks. "Wouldn't he want to hide it?"

"Not here," I reply. "He's too proud of himself. He would want it nearer to the social heart of the structure. The living room, perhaps, where it would be inconspicuously observed in the event of company. It would be hidden inside something symbolic to him, something meaningful. The item itself, however, would have to be commonplace enough to avoid suspicion."

"So what does that leave us?" Rigsby asks, leading us into the room in question. His shoulders are squared and tense; waiting for a fight. He won't find one here. Not yet, in any case.

Donovan's living room is modestly but impressively furnished, bearing cool shades of white and blue. The walls are covered with diplomas and other various talismans of his achievements. All his education is from UCLA, I notice. One framed letter on the right hand side bears a different letterhead, but doesn't appear to be anything but an acceptance letter. His more important achievements are near the top, headed off by his doctorate in microbiology. His books are on display, the more intellectual titles arranged on eye-level so that people can easily see them recognize his depth of character. His self-indulgent science fiction paperbacks are probably holed up in his bedroom, or some other equally personal location.

"Well?" Rigsby inquires after a few minutes. "Anything?"

"Give me a moment," I reply shortly. "I need my bearings."

"We don't have a moment," he insists pointedly. "This has to go fast if it's going to do Lisbon any good."

"You don't think I know that?"

"Jane, I know you have your little ritual things that you need to do to get in the zone-"

"Ritual things?" I ask incredulously. "Really?"

"Well, you need a little drama to work. We all know that and we put up with it, but Lisbon needs us. We don't have time."

"Listen, Rigsby-"

"Guys," Cho interrupts, "Enough."

Silence invades the space between us. Finally, after a very persistent glare from Cho, Rigsby gives me a mildly repentant nod and I return it. I curse myself for the distraction because Rigsby is exactly right—Lisbon needs us. The pressure to get this right is nearing intolerable levels and I can understand his aggression. Stress and fear of loss can do a lot to an individual.

"He reads Machiavelli," I observe, tracing the spine with my finger.

"So?"

"Evidence of a devious mind," I say casually.

"I've read Machiavelli," Cho reminds me, the accusation obvious in his tone if not through anything else.

"Yes, I know," I reply, ignoring Rigsby's amused snort. My eyes rest on a picture of Donovan and an older man. They're shaking hands with a diploma clutched between them, but if the white knuckles are any indication they're having a slight battle of dominance between the two of them. Donovan and his father, I'd expect. Not quite the happy moment it would seem at a glance. They're both trying far too hard to smile. My attention drifts down to the father's right hand and there it is: a class ring. The older man was wearing a class ring from Harvard.

"Aha!" I cry, turning my attention away from the less-than-picturesque family photo.

"What is it?" Rigsby demands.

"It's the acceptance letter," I say, coming to stand in front of his wall of achievements. "All his other frames contain diplomas and awards. Things he's already accomplished, so to speak. This frame, however-" I reach for it and gently lift it from the wall, "-is only an acceptance letter. To Harvard, of course, but the fact remains."

"Get to the point."

Ah, Cho. Ever concise.

"Donovan's father is a Harvard alumni," I explain, turning the frame over. "He was accepted into Harvard, but chose to move across the country to UCLA. Why?"

"The weather?" Rigsby suggests good-naturedly.

"I doubt it," Cho replies.

"It was to spite his father," I say confidently, "I would imagine that he's been doing a lot of that over the years. Developing something of this magnitude just goes along in that same fashion. Spite as a motivation for evil, et cetera."

I remove the back of the frame and there it is—a vial only about the size of a thimble. A small slip of white paper has been wrapped around it, with some kind of formula written in hurried black lettering. He was rushing when he wrote it and stashed it back here. Maybe he'd just gotten that phone call for him to return to the lab immediately, not knowing that the real reason his assistant called him back was to accuse him of developing a dangerous chemical weapon. I pick the vial up in my hand and unwrap it, taking a closer look at what's written before handing the vial itself to Cho.

"Run that to Lisbon, please, will you?" I say calmly, despite the fact that my heart is thudding painfully in my chest.

"Aren't you coming?" he asks, taking some tissue from a nearby box and wrapping the vial carefully before laying it to rest in his pocket.

"Nah, send a car back for us," I say, collapsing on one end of the couch. "Rigsby and I are going to catch Donovan when he comes back to get the remaining antidote."

"Why should he?" Cho asks. "He probably made one to keep at the lab, and he has that one. He can reproduce the formula from there."

"Yes, that would work," I reply, "But that would mean that this vial goes into evidence. And once he starts trying to sell his invention, someone is going to do research and find that stealing the formula is easier than buying it. Evidence gets lost all the time, you know. The price of something always comes down to how readily a buyer can find it elsewhere."

"What did the paper say?" Rigsby asks, taking a seat on the chair across from me.

"Oh, right," I say, handing the paper over to Cho. "Give that to the doctors as well. It's a prescription, essentially. Since he's fairly new and concocting these formulas, he may have had a hard time getting the concentrations right. That writing is instructions on the proper dosage. Lisbon's doctor should be able to decipher them."

"Alright, call when you've got him. I'll send someone back for you," Cho says, marching out the door. Rigsby sinks back into his chair and puts his feet up on the coffee table.

"How long do you think we're going to have to wait for this guy?"

"No more than an hour or two," I reply easily. "He'll have been circling the place for a while now, undoubtedly. The cops at the door are gone, the door is closed, and now our car is gone. He'll think it's safe to collect his work and hit the road, only to walk in here and find us."

Rigsby grins. "Good plan."

"I thought so."


	5. V

_[Author's Note]_

_I'm heading out for the weekend--hopefully, if the weather holds up here in the desert--and I decided that I need to post this before I go out of town. I really enjoyed writing this chapter, so I hope you all enjoy reading it just as much. _

_V._

"Ha!" I laugh. "Oh, that's a good one. Keep it up."

"Why is that so funny?"

"Me and Jane? Married?" I laugh again. "You can't be serious. We're not even on a first-name basis, for crying out loud."

"Oh, you never will be," she says and I look up at her, skeptical. She looks perfectly serious and it worries me.

"What?"

"He's going to be 'Jane' to you for the rest of your lives," she says, "And you'll be 'Lisbon' to him. It's how you know each other, that's all. It's not a test of familiarity or intimacy or anything like that."

"Now you're just messing with me," I say incredulously and Rebecca stays perfectly still, looking back at me with a calm expression on her face. "Right?"

"Your official wedding day is March 20th, but what you both consider your real wedding day is the last day of February of the same year," she says confidently.

Why is my mouth so dry?

"Come on, stop messing around," I say, but my voice doesn't carry the cadence of a joke. If I'm not mistaken, it sounds more like I'm scared as hell.

"Do you want to see it?" she asks. "I do have proof."

"Oh, my God, you're serious," I say, my voice perilously quiet. She simply keeps my gaze, waiting for me to make up my mind. It's too bad for her, because I can't even begin to understand what's going on. She may be waiting a while.

"Come on," she says, jumping off the table and heading for the door, "I'll show you if you don't believe me."

"Give me a second. I can't move yet."

She chuckles.

"Take your time."

Eventually she leads me back through the never-ending maze that is CBI, and finally she stops at the door to my office. It's very familiar, and I find myself reaching out to trace the letters of my name on the door. They're smooth under my fingertips. My heartbeat kicks up a notch as Rebecca covers my hand with hers and slowly pushes the door open. This time, rather than heat, I'm met with cool air and the subtle spice of cinnamon that signals the entrance to my apartment. My eyes close. I don't know if I want to see this. If this is a dream after all, rather than some supernatural prophecy... well, let's just say that it would interfere with my professionalism. When she leads me through the door, I feel lush carpet under me and feel the sunlight pouring through the windows. I'm home.

"It's okay," Rebecca says, lightly patting my shoulder. "Open your eyes."

"I can't."

"You should," she says softly, compassion flowing from her until I'm basking in it. When I do open my eyes, I feel entirely at peace. My concerns, as many as there are, temporarily take a back seat.

The other me is pacing frantically in the living room, chewing on a thumbnail. I haven't had that habit since high school, which shocks me. Whatever I'm losing my mind over in this little universe must be enough to have me regressing to old crutches. Footsteps start down the stairs and we both stop short, looking up to find Jane strolling down them with an easy grin on his face. Where it makes me smile to see him so comfortable, the other me tenses up even further. It doesn't take Jane long to see her unease.

"What's wrong?"

"We're getting married in three weeks," she says, her voice wrought with emotion. She brings her hands to cover her face and it's then I notice the sleek silver band on her left hand.

"Yes, we are," Jane observes casually, hands in his pockets. "I think that's still the plan. Unless, of course, you've changed your mind."

The sadness in his eyes is palpable. Completely aside from the fact that this entire scenario is surreal, I want to comfort him. I want the other me to assure him that she hasn't changed her mind at all. He sits on the arm of my couch, his muscles tense and his mouth pulled into a worried grimace. The image affects me more than I expected it to.

"No, it's not that. It's just…" she takes a deep breath, and exhales loudly. "Jane, I never planned on this."

"Marrying me?" he asks with a laugh. "No, I guess that wasn't in the plans at all."

"You know what I mean," she insists, and I can tell how frustrated she is. "It's not just you. I never… I never thought this would be me, you know? I mean, I always thought about having a husband, maybe a family one day. Who doesn't, really? I think everyone does at some point in their lives. Most people, anyway. I think."

"You're rambling, dear," he says with a soft smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He's scared. It worries me that I can tell, because Jane doesn't show his emotions to anybody—least of all to me.

"Um, right," the other me says and shakes her head, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. "When it comes right down to it, the idea of starting a family—even with someone I love as much as I love you—scares me. It's terrifying. Deep down, this is something I never expected myself to have. Am I making sense?"

"Yes," he says quietly. "Yes, you are."

"Why isn't this easier, Jane?" she begs of him and my eyes start to burn as she walks over to him and takes his hands. "Other people, they fall in love, make a commitment to each other, and they get married. No fear involved, and no doubt. Why can't this be like that?" She takes a deep breath and it doesn't take me long to realize that I'm hanging onto her every word like a lifeline. "I'm afraid sometimes, when I think too hard about it, that I don't deserve you. That I don't deserve to be happy, for whatever reason."

God. I never expected to hear myself say any of this out loud, no matter how long I've been feeling it and keeping it to myself.

"I think that, too," Jane confesses and it surprises me. "I had my chance at all of that, and we, uh… we saw what happened. I didn't feel like I deserved a second chance, and so there was nothing to lose by chasing Red John so single-mindedly. I know you lost your family, too, Lisbon. I know your mother was taken from you, and I know you feel like you failed your father."

I can't breathe. Why can't I breathe?

"But none of that was your fault, and none of that is a reason why you shouldn't try for one of your own." He pulls her left hand up and for a second I think I can feel his breath on my own hand. I watch as he drags his lips over the skin her wrist and I find my heart stuttering in my chest at this subtle but explosive display of intimacy. "You deserve the world, Lisbon, and everything in it. With your permission, I want to try to be the one to give that to you for the rest of our lives. Whether or not you want anything else will be entirely up to you, every step of the way. I never want you to be scared of us, or of our lives together."

"God, Jane," she sighs. "God, I love you."

He grins. "Of course you do. Now go put on your dress."

"What?"

"Just… trust me," he says ambiguously and the other me eyes him suspiciously. At least some things don't change.

"You're not supposed to see me in my wedding dress before the wedding day," she points out blandly. "It's bad luck."

"Superstitious nonsense. Besides, I helped you pick it out," he says with an encouraging smile. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

"Fine."

The other me drops his hands and trudges up the stairs, her footfalls heavy in the otherwise silent apartment. The sunlight is finally starting to fade out, giving my living room a vague overcast of pink on the warm walls. Rebecca and I stand aside, and for a moment I'm certain we're thinking the same thing. We're both watching Jane as his mouth twists into a wistful smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It's never occurred to me just how much I love his laugh lines. My fingers itch to trace them, and it's not exactly the first time they've had that compulsion. Finally my eyes sneak a look at Rebecca, and she has the same expression Jane does.

"God," I say, suddenly alarmed. "This must be awful for you to see. We can go now. You don't have to watch anything else."

"Why would it be awful for me?" she asks.

"You're watching your husband with another woman!" I cry incredulously. "This is like watching him cheat on you."

She smiles and touches my shoulder.

"Teresa, thank you for your concern," she says patiently, "But I'm dead. It's the unquestionable truth that I can no longer be there for him. He deserves someone who can."

"You still love him."

"Of course I do, but things are different on this side of the equation," she assures me with a smile. "Patrick will always have me and our daughter, and we will always have him. We want whatever makes him happy, and that's you. There are no hard feelings from either of us, I promise." She laughs and shakes her head. "Our daughter is actually a fan of yours. She thinks you're funny."

I laugh awkwardly. This is the weirdest conversation I've ever had. "Uh… thanks."

"The point is that Patrick had two paths that he could have taken, and both included CBI," she says seriously. "Should he have been assigned to Agent Bosco, they would have hated each other. That hate would have transformed into a competition that did, indeed, lead to Red John. In that universe, Patrick got his revenge. He killed Red John--brutally, and without mercy--and went to prison, where he died two years later when another inmate didn't like the way he looked at him."

My heart clenches. This choice terrifies me.

"Then, you only heard of him in passing. You'd met him a few times and never looked twice at each other," she continues. "You were miserable then, and your drinking was beginning to resemble your father's. Your lifelong affair with Bosco ended when you were forty-five, after he died of a heart attack. His wife found out about your affair and committed suicide not long after that, naming you personally in the note to her remaining family. You declined even further after that, until you lost your position with CBI and you were forced into rehab."

"Jesus…"

"I couldn't have dealt with that, honestly," she says earnestly. "It would have hurt me more than anything in the world. As an alternative, I put the two of you together. I like this alternative far more than I like the other."

"Right," I murmur, trying to ignore the heavy weight on my chest. It's hard.

I had never considered my life without Jane unless it was fantasizing about less paperwork. The stark reality of it scares me. Rebecca is watching me closely, I guess waiting for any kind of sign that I'm going to break down. I offer her a weak smile and turn away from her just in time to see the other me trailing down the stairs. The dress I've picked out is beautiful, and simple. Strapless, but floor-length and delicate—perfect for the California weather that time of year. A quick peek in Jane's direction tells me that he appreciates it just as much.

"See?" he asks pointedly, "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Yeah, yeah," she says, clearing her throat. "Make your point already."

"Alright," he says, standing up and leading her to the middle of the room, where he takes her hands and kisses them. "Do you, Lisbon, take me, Patrick, as your semi-lawfully wedded husband?"

The other me laughs. "What?"

"Well?" he asks. "We don't have all day here."

"You're serious?"

"Perfectly."

She laughs again. "Uh… then yes, I do."

"Do you promise to love me and cherish me, forsaking all others, and be faithful only to me?"

"Yes."

"Do you promise not to threaten me, physically harm me, or threaten jail time when I make you mad?"

The other me a laughs again before answering, "I promise to threaten you unless we're at work, physically harm you unless we're at work, or threaten jail time unless we're at work."

Jane eyes her.

"What? I'm meeting you halfway on this one."

"Insufferable woman," he mutters and sighs. "Fine, I'll take what I can get at this point."

"Well, Jane?" she asks, humor written all over her face. She really does seem happy and it makes me smile right along with her. "Do you promise to take me, Teresa, as your as-yet unlawfully wedded wife?"

"I do."

"Do you promise to love me and cherish me, forsaking all others, and be faithful only to me?"

"I do."

"Do you promise not to annoy me, make me clean up after you, or lie to me?"

"I promise not to annoy you unless we're at work, make you clean up after me unless we're at work," he says, making her laugh, "And I promise that I will never lie to you, under any circumstances."

"I promise never to lie or keep things from you, and I promise never to count you out of my life," she says solemnly. "I promise to do everything in my power to make you happy even when I'd love nothing more than to run away."

Jane's eyes focus on her face and I'm shocked to feel tears building behind my eyes.

"I promise to always include you in my thoughts, no matter what they are," he says, laying a hand on her cheek. "I promise to do everything in my power to make you happy even when I'd love nothing more than to run away."

"Do you promise never to hypnotize me to get me to do the laundry?"

He laughs out loud. "Is that an issue?"

"I hate laundry."

"Fine," he says, laughing. "I promise never to hypnotize you to do the laundry."

"Deal."

God, she looks so happy. She looks so _in love _with him. With _Patrick Jane. _

"Well, Lisbon, that's it," he announces cheerfully, "I now pronounce us stuck with each other, from now on."

"Random, but okay," she says, laughing. "Do we still have to do the other wedding?"

"Only if you want it to be recognized by the state of California," he teases. "But it's just a formality, so our loved ones can see us and all that. Now you can be calm, because the only wedding that matters is the one that just happened."

"You're something, you know that?" she asks, smiling brilliantly.

He winks. "I had no idea."

The kiss they share then is a mixture of laughter and love, and I'm shocked to realize that I'm crying. Tears are trailing down my face and my heart aches for that kind of happiness. I never expected to ever find it with anyone, much less my pain-in-the-ass consultant. But the proof is there—in a few years, I'll love him more than life itself.

Funny how life works against your express wishes.


End file.
